ceiling of amber, pavement of pearl
by lisbei
Summary: Lysander decides he's had enough of this whole 'let's fight the gods' thing, and goes home to die. What he doesn't know is that a certain sea-god has other ideas. M/M.
1. Chapter 1

_Poseidon leaned heavily on his trident as he let Zeus's words wash over him, choosing instead to concentrate on the horrendous mess the mortals had made of things, far below, but not far enough that he couldn't hear the screaming and the frantic prayers, which Zeus had now decided would not be answered. By what authority, he wanted to ask. Had Zeus forgotten that they were brothers? So Poseidon had chosen the guise of a young man, rather than his usual appearance as a venerable old man – that didn't make him any less powerful, any less what he was. So he had a favourite among the mortals – Zeus had Theseus, and he had this confused young mortal who had chosen the wrong path. Maybe he could nudge Lysander back towards the right one (yes, towards your bed, Zeus would say spitefully). This Theseus and Hyperion business was Zeus's problem, he decided. He, Poseidon, had been too long away from his real home – the sea. Its people were his business, and if he led one troubled soldier away from certain death on a whim, well, he was a god. He asked for no-one's permission. _

The sound of the waves hitting the shore and the smell of the sea woke Lysander from a fitful half-sleep, and he held his breath, cursing himself for having let down his guard, even for a few minutes.

But no-one was in the small tent with him. No-one had taken advantage of his inattention, and slowly, his heart-rate returned to normal, and his fists unclenched. Now he was annoyed that something had disturbed the only rest he was likely to have for a while, and he wondered what it had been. Not the sea, of course. King Hyperion's camp was too far inland for that. He must have been dreaming. It had seemed so real, though. He could almost taste the salt spray on his lips, feel the cool water on his face . . . no matter. He must have been woken by some noise in the camp. One of the many noises – a scream, the sounds of sobbing, pleading for mercy. It was always so _loud_ in the camp. Lysander scoffed at himself for that thought, as he turned the mask over and over in his hands. All are equal in Hyperion's army, he thought, and his mental voice sounded derisive.

Yes, his previous camp had been loud too. He let himself wallow in the nostalgia for a few seconds, yearning after the groups of men drinking and exchanging tall tales of conquest, the camp followers washing their clothes and singing, and even some children, always getting underfoot.

A far cry from the noise here – barked orders, screams of agony from the bulls (always the fucking bulls, bull-head masks, metal bulls with fire underneath and the wailing always coming from the nostrils, along with the steam and the . . . smell) sobbing and wailing from anyone unfortunate enough to be left alive by the monstrous King. Yes, _monstrous_. He'd finally said it, even if it was in the privacy of his own head. In the _other_ camp, he didn't have to hide away in a corner in case some of the other warriors (the ones who still had balls, he added resentfully) would use the weaklings for sport. That's what he was, now, a weakling, a eunuch. Lysander's resentment boiled over. He was in constant pain from his crushed testicles, and a more recent addition was a persistent ache in his lower back from . . . other things that had been done to him the one time he was naive enough to let his guard down.

Lysander poked at the eye holes of the mask. Why had he come here? He was finding it hard to remember anything of his life before. What had led him to this place, this state? What had been so bad about his life that he'd thrown it away, and for this? In trying to retrace his steps he always got stuck at the mallet. Hyperion had taken one look at him, had judged him as useless, and had laughed when that creature had carved up his face. And the hammer. That had been his reward. For treason, for murder. It was what he deserved.

What had he thought, that they were going to put him out of his misery? Hadn't he been prepared to snivel and beg for his life? He remembered now. He'd been afraid to die! That was it. The thought struck him as hilarious, now. If he'd died then, fighting this army of horrors, he'd probably have been worthy of the Elysian Fields. Now, the state he was in, not even Hades would want him.

He was so tired. He felt filthy, like the dirt was ingrained under his skin, and caked in it, at the same time. He couldn't even _sleep_ here. Hidden as he was he could hear sobs and protestations from the men and boys being dragged out and shared amongst the creatures, which was what Hyperion called the worst of his warriors, the ones who wore the bull-head mask. No-one dared touch the women who'd been captured – those belonged to Hyperion alone. Not the pregnant ones, those had been tortured and slaughtered by the King, personally. And the children . . . Lysander shuddered. He didn't want to think about the children.

As Lysander sat, lost in his thoughts, the night passed, and soon the army started mustering towards the wall, towards the last defence. He got up and joined them, for where could he go, marked as he was? Still, as they started their march towards the gate, he found himself walking slower and slower, until the whole army had almost passed him by. He was possessed by an almost irresistible desire to turn back, to walk away. He'd never wanted this. He'd just been so afraid of death that he hadn't considered that some things might be worse. He could go and throw himself on Theseus's sword, of course. That would have been the _honourable_ thing to do. But when had he ever been honourable? And he felt so dirty. How could he die like this, less than a man, covered with the filth of Hyperion's very presence?

As he stumbled along, dragging his feet, he became conscious of eyes on him. Not the common foot-soldiers like himself, their very masks prevented peripheral vision. And maybe that had been one of the reasons they all wore them, he thought bitterly. No looking around for those in Hyperion's army, always stare straight ahead, focussed on whatever Hyperion wanted. He couldn't even look to the side to see who had seen his reluctance, but he could guess – one of the Minotaurs, who were tasked with maintaining discipline as well as torture, rape and slaughter. As if in a dream, he felt the swing of the hammer as it whistled towards his head and managed to turn a stumble into a headlong fall, and lay on the ground as the rest of the army passed by. People stepped onto his hands and his legs, but he didn't move. He was sure that the Minotaur even kicked him a few times, but his performance must have been convincing, as eventually he was left alone.

Without moving his head, he could see though one of the eyeholes as he lay on the ground. Hundreds of feet disappeared into a huge dust cloud which seemed to have swallowed the world. When he heard the explosion signalling Hyperion's use of the weapon of the gods, Lysander got up, and, after one last look towards the army, which by now was charging towards the wall, started a slow but steady plod in the other direction. He did not look back again, even when he heard a distant rumble and the ground started shaking so strongly he nearly lost his footing. Through some magic or optical illusion as he had heard was common in the desert, it seemed to him he could see the sea in the distance. He would reach it. And at least, maybe he would be clean when he died.

Lysander walked for days. How many exactly, he was never sure afterwards. Sometimes he slept during the night, at others, he slept during the day, so he quickly lost track of time. He used the cloth of his mask to gather up dew, and sucked off the scant moisture it offered. The sweat ran down his face and stung his barely healed wounds during the day, while his whole body shivered so hard during the cold desert nights that his legs started cramping, yet he never stopped his slow steady pace. Often he had terrible dreams, that the Minotaurs had found him, that Hyperion stood at his head as he woke. But they were just dreams. Each day, or night, he woke and he was alone, something he was thankful for. He never came across any houses or villages or farms, something which he was also glad for, though at times he felt as though he was the only man left alive in the world. He was always hungry, and occasionally he found insects and grubs to eat which looked terrible and tasted worse, but which at least gave him the strength to keep walking.

One day, just as the niggling thought came to him that his increasingly weak body could not take much more of this, he realised that he'd been hearing a strange sound for a while now. No, it wasn't a _strange_ sound. It was one he'd known, but had forgotten, the sound of waves hitting the shore and retreating. The air smelled different, of freshness and salt, rather than pure condensed heat. He tried to look up, but his eyes had long ago swelled up in reaction to the punishing desert sun and the dust raised by his sandals as he plodded along, so he saw nothing until he stumbled down a rocky incline and splashed into a shallow inlet. As dehydrated as he was, he managed to squeeze out a few tears of joy, which cleared his eyes even as they stung unbearably on his scarred face.

He was in a little cove, not enough sand to be called a beach, but pebbles and rocks, and a floor which seemed to slope off gradually, but which he knew would drop off in a few metres. He laughed in joy and threw away the horrid rag, all which remained of the mask which Hyperion had put over his face after turning him into a monster. Lysander splashed the cold sea water over his limbs, and waded in deeper. It was his imagination, he knew, but he could feel it scouring off the dirt and the horrors, all the things he'd done and all the things that had been done to him. As the cool, sparkling waters closed over his head, he laughed again, swallowing gratefully. He could die now. He was clean again.

Lysander had never expected to wake up again, alive. But alive he was, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was on some rocks. He started retching helplessly, as all the sea water he'd swallowed came out of him. Then he sensed rather than saw that he wasn't alone. He just had time to look up and see that three old fishermen had surrounded him, when something hard hit his head, and blackness washed over him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

When Lysander woke up a second time, he could tell he was indoors without opening his eyes. He knew he must be in some primitive shack – he could feel a hard stone floor under him. He lay on his side, and fought the urge to look around him. Where was he, and why had he been brought to this place?

The small house was full of people – he could hear the voices of old men arguing, and occasionally he heard a female voice. Strange to hear a woman involved in such things. It slowly dawned on Lysander that they were arguing about him.

"He's a cursed soldier from Hyperion's army, look at his face! It is said Hyperion's bulls scar men this way and then give them masks to wear – we have to kill him, or he'll lead the rest of the army here, and this time no-one will survive the slaughter!"

This sounded like an elderly man who'd seen too much sorrow. Lysander couldn't help but agree with him – and he'd wanted to die. He still did. Didn't he?

But another voice interrupted his thoughts – a woman, this time.  
"He's a young man, strong despite his current state, and we need him. You won't allow the younger women to fish and you can't do this on your own anymore."

"I have heard that Hyperion's army was defeated-" a different voice, yet another old man. "Our young men will return and take up their nets-"  
But he wasn't allowed to finish.

"No." Another man, this time. Lysander thought he sounded older, too, but he couldn't be sure. How had they all escaped Hyperion's army? His cheeks burned as he remembered his own village, where no-one had been left after he'd led the tyrant's men there.

"Those who weren't killed outright by the monstrous King died in his battle. I hear that the gods themselves joined the lists and struck him down, as well as any who fought by his side. At least," and here Lysander imagined the man shrugged, for his next words were more rueful and down to earth, "that's what Kephalos, the pot seller, told me yesterday."

The discussion dissolved into a hubbub of yelled arguments between those who thought Kephalos the pot seller was an old windbag pickled in wine, and those who scoffed at the thought of the gods taking a direct interest in the suffering of mortals. No-one scoffed at the gods, though, Lysander noticed. There was a lot of reverence here, and not a little fear too. Lysander guessed that, living on the bounty of the sea as they did, they couldn't afford to alienate any gods who might be listening. Lysander himself didn't know what he felt about the gods – he'd always joined in the rituals, and made sacrifices without really thinking about it. He remembered being very young and hearing stories about the gods disguising themselves as mortals to walk among them, but he was fairly sure he'd never seen a god. Sure, he'd heard the mountain come down behind him, but he'd never actually _seen_ how it happened. Who's to say it wasn't a conveniently timed . . . event. Of some kind. A comet, maybe. They'd said Theseus had been directly helped by the gods, though. This rumour had circulated at camp despite the amount of people Hyperion had killed to try and quash it.

A high-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts. A woman, then. Young, by the sound of it. Things must be dire in this village if they allowed young women into their councils.

"We can't let him stay here, he will ravage us . . . I've heard stories . . ."  
She sounded terrified. The older woman answered, reassuringly.  
"My dear, he is incapable. The barbaric King Hyperion made sure that very few men besides himself would father children on the women of Greece."  
Lysander shuddered. He was still wearing his ragged old chiton, [1] but they must have . . . what? _Examined_ him? He sensed that the men in the room were shuffling around uncomfortably at such talk, and wished he could too.

"He will stay with me." This was a new voice, another old man, of which the village seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. "I will teach him to fish and we will not starve, or have to eat all our goats to survive."

"He will refuse – why else would he have joined that damned army if not to escape honest labour?"

"Why not ask him? He's been awake for a while now."

Lysander flushed, sensing that everyone in the room was staring at him now. He opened his eyes, cringing slightly at the attention. Now that he could look around him, he saw that he was in a small room which seemed to be bursting with people. He recognized the three old fishermen who had found him on the beach where he woke up – they looked very much like one would expect elderly fishermen to look: white, thinning hair, faces nut-brown, eyes surrounded by a mass of wrinkles from squinting into the sun all day. The older woman he had heard speak drew herself up, regally, and nodded to him. Her long brown hair was shot with streaks of grey and pulled back into a knot, while her chiton and himation,2 worn and faded, were nevertheless clean. He didn't know why he was staring at her, except maybe she reminded him of his mother. He deliberately didn't try to look at the younger woman he'd heard speak – the last thing he needed was for these men, who seemed to hate him on principle, to think he had any designs on their younger women.

This can't have been a poor village, before Hyperion came, he thought. Now, well. Some of them considered _his_ arrival to be a sign of hope. Things must truly be desperate, then. Lysander tried to get up, only for one of the old men to plant his staff in his chest, forcing him back down.

"How can we trust him? How do we know he's not just scouting for his master?" The last word was said with a sneer.

Lysander opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a croak – he dimly recalled retching what seemed like half the ocean and his throat was on fire. The older woman walked over to him, and held a cup to his mouth. Just water. They wouldn't be wasting any wine on him.

"Slowly, now, or you'll be sick again."

The old man was impatient.

"Well? Why did you come here? Speak, eunuch!"

Lysander flushed again, this time in anger, though he held on to it, with difficulty. He could hardly deny it. He was a eunuch. That was what he was, now.

"I walked away from the final battle." Lysander spoke carefully and with some difficulty – his voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears. He ignored the various mutterings of _coward_, and _see? I told you-_. "I never intended to come _here_. I wanted to find the sea. I-"

Lysander trailed off, not wanting to admit he'd actually thought of suicide. Not that they would have disapproved – might have even given him a hand.

"Maybe he wanted to make sacrifice to the god," the young woman said timidly, before blushing at the sudden attention, and drawing her veil across her face.

Lysander didn't need to ask which god she meant. This was a fishing village, after all.

"And the god rejected him, threw him back! It's a sign!"  
This was the old man with the staff, who was using it now to prod Lysander and slap him a few times on the thigh.

The man who'd said Lysander could stay with him shook his head.  
"No, it's a gift. The god hears our prayers and gives us someone to help us in our work."

Lysander could see various people drawing deep breaths to speak, probably to protest that a half-starved eunuch wasn't much of a gift, and then stopping abruptly, no doubt realising the danger of loudly questioning the god's answer to their prayers.

"My name is Hipparchus," the old man said, helping Lysander up. "What is yours?"

Lysander opened his mouth, and closed it again. He was seized with a sudden hatred for himself, combined with pity for a village so poor that it saw his arrival as a blessing from the gods.

"Aischrion," he answered.

Hipparchus looked puzzled, while the other old man, the one with the staff, barked out a laugh. "The name suits," he said, and seemed to want to add more, but the older woman stopped him with a look.

She looked at Lysander with pity in her eyes, and for a moment he hated her for that.

"I hardly think your mother gave you the name 'Ugly', not with that lovely golden hair," she said, gently.

Lysander shrugged, not trusting himself to answer.

The meeting was breaking up, but the curmudgeonly old man still found time to mutter, on his way out, that the golden hair was probably the reason Poseidon spared Lysander's life, and now they were stuck with a eunuch just because the god wanted some mortal _eromenos_ to warm his bed. The young woman covered her mouth in delighted horror, and the other men just shook their heads. Evidently they were used to such salty talk.

"Come," said Hipparchus. "You need a bath, and a change of clothing." He sniffed, meaningfully, and Lysander cringed. He couldn't smell himself anymore, which was probably just as well. He wondered if taking a bath here meant dunking himself in the stream he could hear in the distance, but, following Hipparchus out of the small house they'd been in, he realised they were going to the centre of the village.

He looked around, curiously. It was late afternoon, light enough to see a rather small village, with a handful of small houses set back from a rocky coastline. He could just see a small inlet with a few fishing boats moored. In one of the natural depressions he found what he'd been looking for: a statue of Poseidon with his trident, made of marble, he was surprised to see. But then, it wasn't a huge statue – it was bigger than a tall man, but not much bigger.

The houses too were economically built – made of stone or brick, not big, but sufficient, and all of them neatly made and clean. No, this hadn't been a _rich_ town before Hyperion came, but it must have been happy. Now, all the young men were gone, he could see. There were some children playing – in a village this small they wouldn't have been cooped up in the women's quarters, if they even had such a thing here. Lysander was glad a few children had escaped Hyperion's hands.

While he was lost in his thoughts, they had arrived at the village's small bath-house – he managed to stop himself from being surprised that a village so small even had such a thing. Still, he almost embarrassed himself when he saw Hipparchus light the fire under the stones. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask where the slave was, but he bit back his words. Was that all it took, a few hours among civilised people, and he forgot where he'd spent the last weeks, living in his own filth among murderers and torturers, having become one of them?

Hipparchus had got the fire going and grabbed a ladle for the olive oil – he gestured towards Lysander with it.  
"Do you want me to-"  
"No! I mean, thank you, I'll do myself."

Lysander was about to pull the chiton over his head before the usual oiling that went before a steam bath, but then he hesitated. Though why was he hesitating? Hipparchus already knew everything about him, and so he pulled the tunic off with a sudden burst of defiance, only to see that the old man had already turned his back. Lysander wasn't sure if Hipparchus was trying to spare his feelings or not. Either way, he was grateful. And angry, and hurt, and humiliated, which is why the next words which burst out of him were:

"I betrayed my village, you know. I killed my fellow soldiers and led Hyperion's army there."

Hipparchus looked up, mildly. The rocks had heated up and he had started pouring water over them, after which he threw sage and rosemary on the brazier, and soon they were enveloped in clouds of sweet-smelling steam, the scent of which brought a sudden rush of nostalgia to Lysander. Through the steam he couldn't tell what Hipparchus was thinking, but his next words were mild in tone, though the story they told was horrific.

"My son did the same. Or tried to."

Hipparchus's face tightened in pained recollection. "We argued that day. He was angry at everything, at me, at the gods, at life, even. He said he would join that monster's army, to become his soldier, and we'd all see." He smiled, sadly. "I never saw him again. Hypatia, the older woman you met today, had heard stories of what Hyperion's army was doing to the people they encountered, and she managed to convince many of us to hide in the sea caves on the coast. All the old people, many of the young women and children, none of the young men. When we returned, we saw . . ."

The old man closed his eyes, rubbing them. Lysander could imagine what they had seen, but he let Hipparchus continue.

"So many bodies – pregnant women, slaughtered like cattle. Young men, butchered in the street. Though not all of them – the women who were not with child were taken, as well as the some of the men. My son," he paused there, "my son did not die that day. He joined Hyperion's army, so he must have been rewarded for his betrayal . . . or not."

Hipparchus looked at Lysander with sudden comprehension.  
"Was this your reward? Your face, and . . . your manhood?" Hipparchus gestured towards Lysander's groin and Lysander wanted to cover himself. "Did my son get the same treatment?"

"I don't know. Hyperion was insane, I . . ." he wanted to reassure the old man, but didn't know how. Knowing Hyperion, he'd done the same thing to Hipparchus's son, but how could he speak of such horrors to the only person who'd shown him any sympathy?

"No matter."  
Hipparchus shook his head and gestured at Lysander to stop him from speaking. "It is done. My son is dead, but the village need not die too. We managed to save all the children, and some young women, so maybe young men will come here, in time."

He lay back, soaking in the steam, and Lysander could see that he wasn't as old as he had thought, just prematurely aged through a hard life.

"Will you stay here, and work with us?"

Lysander wanted to say he hadn't known he had a choice, but that would sound churlish. They were going to clothe him and feed him – apparently death wasn't an option if even the sea threw him back, and what else was there for him? He nodded, and Hipparchus must have seen it through the steam, as he clapped him on the shoulder, and urged him up, handing him a strigil.3  
"Come, we'd best get going – you need to eat, and sleep. Tomorrow, you learn how to fish. Though, of course, I need to know the name of the man who will be living in my house."

Lysander flushed and looked down, pretending to pay special attention to scraping the back of his leg. He muttered, "Lysander," not willing to continue with the self-hatred that had driven him earlier.

"_Good_ name. Come, come . . ."

Hipparchus rushed him into his filthy chiton, assuring him he'd have clean clothes soon, and chivvied him out of the bath-house – not a moment too soon, because a few of the men from the earlier meeting were casually dropping by, pretending not to be curious about him.

Hipparchus's house was average-sized, with two small areas, one obviously for eating and the other with two low pallets for sleeping – Lysander wondered if he'd left his son's bed ready for him, in case he came back. There was food ready – bread, goats' cheese, olives and wine, which Hipparchus diluted carefully.

Lysander ate only a little, and in small bites – he knew what would happen if he wolfed everything down.

"Now, take that filthy thing off, perhaps the women can get it clean again-"  
"Burn it- if you have something else for me to wear," Lysander spat out, dragging the hated thing over his head and shoulders and balling it up in his hands.

Hipparchus nodded at him, seeming to understand the sudden rage which drove Lysander, who flushed again, embarrassed at his spontaneous words. These weren't exactly rich people. But Hipparchus simply opened a chest in the corner and drew out a chiton, which, while not new, was at least clean.

"This belonged to my son. It was his second-best . . ."

Hipparchus was looking at it as he spoke, and drawing his fingers through the folds. He looked up at Lysander, seeming to recollect where he was, and showed it to him.

"You can wear it in the morning. But now, I think you should get some sleep."  
Lysander's eyes were already drooping closed. He managed to hold one thought in his head, how strange it was that he was in comparatively good shape after his trek through the desert and his near drowning, but even that disappeared as he let himself fall asleep.

1 _chiton_: a tunic made up of a rectangle of woolen or linen fabric, fastened at the shoulders by pins, sewing, or buttons. A man's chiton was usually knee-length, while a woman's usually reached the ankles.  
2 _himation_: a cloak.  
3 _strigil_: a small, curved, metal tool used in ancient Greece to scrape dirt and sweat from the body. First perfumed oil was applied to the skin, and then it would be scraped off, along with the dirt.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lysander dreams of flying through the water, of ringing in his ears, of a comely young man with a sharp grin, dark hair and flashing eyes, guiding him towards the surface. The salt stings his eyes but he looks around in awe as shoals of fish support his weakened limbs, as a dolphin nips at his tattered chiton and pulls him up. More ominous shapes move past him silently, with inexorable purpose, and the last thing he sees before his eyes close is the flat black of a shark's eye as it too, it seems, is tasked with dragging him away from his self-administered punishment. He will remember nothing of this dream except the sensation of burning in his lungs, and the pain of drowning._

Even though he managed to get up early enough to watch the village men go fishing, Lysander was still in no physical shape to get on a boat. So one of the old men stayed behind to show him the rudiments of knotting a net, and repairing the cone-shaped cages which the fishermen used as traps underwater.

He became so engrossed in his work that the hours passed quickly until the men came back with the best catch they'd had in months. Lysander ignored the sideways glances he got as the men trooped back to the houses, and the women squabbled over the catch. As only one or two still had living husbands, dividing it up was not the straightforward matter it had been in the past, and Hypatia frequently had to intervene between them.

Hipparchus came with his share, a large, rather fierce-looking lobster. Lysander left it up to him to subdue and prepare for the pot.

"You don't sell your fish?"  
Lysander had spent so many years in the army, he was no longer sure of things worked in small villages, but he was fairly certain he'd heard of fish markets and suchlike.

Hipparchus shrugged.

"We have had so much loss here, that our catch has not been worth selling. We are salting and preserving fish for the winter, when it becomes more difficult to make a good catch. A couple of catches like today's, and perhaps we will not starve this year. We have some fields on the hills, but very little grows so close to the sea."

Lysander noticed that Hipparchus looked at him out of the corner of his eye when he mentioned that day's exceptional catch, but he refused to catch his eye. What did he, Lysander, know about gods and their whims? He had worshipped back at his home, more to fit in than anything else. And soldiers had their own rituals of appeasement, which he'd joined. Still, he'd never had a sign of otherworldly involvement in his affairs, and he doubted he ever would. What he'd seen in those weeks with Hyperion had disabused him of the notion of any benevolent deity watching over humans. He'd had no doubt all those slaughtered women had prayed to Artemis, to Athena, and for what? But he wasn't prepared to put his thoughts in words. And yet he knew, despite himself, that something strange was going on. He found himself unable to forget that last morning, in Hyperion's camp, being woken by the impossible – the smell and sound of the sea. He should have drowned, but here he was. And now, his arrival had heralded this _bounty_. Was he being _courted_? Or was this another cruel joke being played on him? Would he be greeted with snide laughter, and more torture, before finally being allowed to die? He realised that he was frozen in place, holding a pot which he had been asked to fill with water at the stream, and flushed. He glared at Hipparchus, and at the lobster, and stomped off. He wasn't going to consider this anymore. Damn gods and their games. It wasn't worth wasting any more thought on.

The next morning Lysander went on a fishing boat for the very first time. And after that, it seemed that five years passed in the blink of an eye. After, he tried hard to remember whether one particular day stood out more than the others, but it never did. He learned how to fish, and spent his days, spring and summer more than winter, on the fishing boat with Hipparchus, using the nets or the cages, and soon it became second nature for him (as killing used to be, the treacherous part of his brain informed him, the part that hadn't forgotten his actions or forgiven them). After that first day, any boat Lysander was on got the best catch, mountains of glittering sea bream and bass, lobsters and crayfish almost fighting for the privilege of entering his cages. Once a swordfish had beached itself on the deck of his boat, and the village had even managed to do some barter for once, with enough corn and oil to last for months. No-one had made any more snide remarks about Poseidon and his predilections after that, but the sacrifices to the god were made with more conviction than ever.

Soon he was almost indistinguishable from the other fishermen in the village – the few things which set him apart were his scars, and the fact that he was the only youthful man who never took off his chiton. A few months after his arrival the young women started showing rounded bellies, and the story circulated that they had already been pregnant when their men had been taken or killed, just not showing yet. Lysander had turned a sceptical eye on Hipparchus, who just pointed out that without babies, the village would die out. So what if the babies were born late? They would have their fathers' names. Lysander noticed that the old men walked straighter and talked louder, but he shrugged. Why shouldn't they be proud that they were keeping their village alive? Where were those who made the rules about legitimacy and so on, where were they now. He immediately, with some discomfort, flashed back to himself at ten, insulting Theseus for being a bastard. He couldn't take it back, but at least he could make up for it by turning a blind eye, when any other man would not have. Besides, what right did he have to judge? He was only alive through their goodwill, and he wasn't going to do any repopulating any time soon.

Lysander wondered when he'd stopped looking at the hills which led down to the village, waiting for soldiers coming to make him pay for his betrayal. It never happened, which made him think it never would.

In fact, the attack came from the sea.

If he'd kept count, Lysander would have realised that day was five years to the day he'd arrived in the small fishing village. But he didn't and when the huge wave swept him off the boat he'd been loading nets and baskets onto, it came as much of a shock to him as it was to the people watching. Time slowed down to a crawl. He realised he could understand what one of the men was shouting as he toppled into the sea.

"It's a hand! Look, a great hand, made of water! Look, do you see?"

Then all he heard was a ringing in his ears, and he knew no more.

For the second time in his life, Lysander woke up expecting to be dead. And for the second time in his life, he was alive. But this time, he wasn't on a sunny beach. He was in some sort of cave, which seemed to be underwater. Half of it was covered in water, like a shallow lagoon, but it was not sand which covered the bottom . . . he could hardly believe his eyes, and had to touch the smooth surface before he accepted that the floor was covered in mother-of pearl. The ceiling was even stranger – it glowed, but not like phosphorescent algae or moss, but like a warm fire. Squinting at it, he realised it was amber – a king's ransom of amber, and it covered the cave. The water was warm, and everything was smooth and beautiful, and it didn't smell damp or stifling, but salty.

He looked around him and realised that there was a man sitting in the corner, watching him closely. At first he thought it was an old man, sitting on a chair, holding his staff.

"Who are you?"

Lysander's voice was low and hoarse, and his throat burned terribly from the salt water he'd swallowed.

The man got up suddenly, and he no longer seemed old but was young and beautiful (and very naked, his mind-voice gulped), and his staff slammed down into the rock which flowed and hardened around it, and it was no longer a staff, but a trident.

"Take a wild guess," Poseidon replied, for of course it was the god himself.


End file.
